Chapter 432: Noble Virtue

The magic cannon carriage, pulled by pack horses, creaked and groaned as it made its way along the rough, uneven dirt road. Fully armed Cecil soldiers formed a protective perimeter around the carriage, vigilant for any movement across the barren plains. At the front of the column rode the young Knight Philip, his gaze fixed on the distant mountain range marking the northernmost edge of the Southern Territory.

Between those mountains lay Rockhold Fortress, like an iron gate firmly locking the land—and the Cecil family’s hold on it—for a century.

Today, he was going to open that gate.

Scouts rode ahead in groups of three, constantly dispatched from the main force to survey the surroundings in all directions, reporting back in real time: the troops had now reached the buffer zone between Rockhold Fortress and the Southern Territory. Heightened alertness was imperative.

Knight Philip understood clearly that this battle would be nothing like the bombardment at Shattered Stone Ridge. There, he had fought a defensive battle—the noble allied forces were the attackers, and all he had to do was set up his artillery and wait for them to walk into his trap. But this time, he was the attacker, and everything would be different.

According to traditional noble codes and the etiquette of war, both attackers and defenders were bound to act by the rules. Even if one side uncovered the enemy’s movements, they had to wait patiently on the agreed battlefield, allowing the opponent to enter, form ranks, and signal the start of battle before launching an attack. This ceremonial “battle procedure” was highly esteemed among nobles—it ensured the safety of all noble combatants and maintained an air of dignity and grace. But the bombardment at Shattered Stone Ridge shattered all that.

A single cannon blast at Shattered Stone Ridge had left the noble allied forces, still scrambling to form ranks, slaughtered by the sudden assault of the Cecils. Since then, the old rules of war had been discarded. Having suffered once, the nobles would no longer cling to outdated formalities. Knight Philip had to be ready at all times for enemy ambushes. Though the magic crystal railgun was powerful, it was most vulnerable before the artillery positions were fully established.

Lost in thought, Philip was suddenly roused by a commotion nearby. He looked up to see several soldiers escorting two bound prisoners forward.

He reined in his horse and observed the two captives. They wore traditional—or rather, old-fashioned—iron chainmail with no insignia visible. One had an arm blackened and burned by a thermal ray gun; the other showed no obvious wounds.

The squad leader escorting them saluted and reported loudly, “Sir! We’ve captured spies from Rockhold Fortress. They were skulking in the nearby woods and were caught by our outer patrols.”

The prisoners looked terrified, as if the strange, heavily armed Cecil soldiers around them might devour them whole. Philip looked down at them from his horse and after a long pause asked, “Are you from Rockhold Fortress?”

Denial would be suicide. After a brief hesitation, both nodded.

“Good. Don’t worry—I won’t execute you,” Philip said with a slight nod. “I will send you back. Our lord has a letter to deliver to the commander of Rockhold Fortress.”

…

The Cecils had truly arrived.

Two patrol soldiers returning from the southern approach brought news of a massive Cecil offensive—and the “letter” they had delivered to Rockhold Fortress.

The fortress’s defenders immediately summoned all military commanders and the southern nobles sheltering within.

In the main hall of the castle, a knight captain relayed the latest intelligence to his superior:

“General, three to five thousand troops are advancing northward. They have a large convoy—carriages loaded with strange devices, possibly the ‘Heavenfire Explosives’ spellcasters. They’ve already reached the hills south of the fortress and should enter the plains in about three days…”

The southern nobles stirred uneasily but remained mostly composed. The other knight officers whispered among themselves. A mid-ranking knight commander stood and addressed Sir Mariland: “General, what does the Cecil ‘declaration of war’ say?”

Sir Mariland nodded and produced the letter recently handed to him—the “personal letter from Duke Gawain Cecil.” All eyes in the hall, especially among the southern nobles, immediately fixed on it. The room seemed to hold its breath.

Sir Mariland already knew the contents. He glanced at the southern nobles before calmly beginning, “I will read it aloud.”

The letter was brief—not ornate or flowery like most noble correspondence, but simple and direct, like a note:

“…Over forty southern nobles have collectively declared war on the Cecil family. The remaining culprits fled into Rockhold Fortress after their defeat. Given their unprovoked aggression against Cecil lands and people, they have been legally declared war criminals. The Cecil army is now proceeding to your location to take custody of these prisoners. We expect you to discern right from wrong, surrender the war criminals, and allow our personnel to enter the fortress for inspection.”

Sir Mariland finished reading in under a minute. Silence fell over the hall.

Two minutes later, a knight officer broke the silence with an exclamation: “What is this?! What kind of diplomatic letter is this?!”

“Exactly. This is no negotiation,” Sir Mariland said bitterly, looking at the officer. “This is a command from on high—more arrogant than a king ordering his own servants. It seems our resurrected founding hero never intended to negotiate with us.”

The southern nobles grew anxious after hearing the letter’s content, fearing Sir Mariland might hand them over to secure the fortress’s safety. Seeing his reaction, they relaxed slightly. Viscount Mario Lan quickly added, “Sir, you’re right. The Cecils will never negotiate by tradition. Their lord disregards all virtues and rules. Negotiating with them is a waste of time—and a trap!”

Sir Mariland nodded slightly. Nearby, Viscount Konsko stood and said, “Sir, the Cecils won’t arrive for three days. We can use this time to prepare…”

“Prepare?” Sir Mariland looked at the tall, thin man who had recently been despondent and drowning his sorrows. He knew Konsko’s family was relatively new nobility, but the man was clever and quick-witted. “What do you suggest?”

Konsko gritted his teeth. “We can dig more traps in the plains, send druids to poison the hills, dump diseased livestock carcasses into the Whitewater River, even have druids spread plague in the water. We’ve already sealed all the wells on the plains. The Cecils will have to rely on the river for water. No matter how powerful their weapons, people get sick…”

“Enough!” Sir Mariland suddenly interrupted before Konsko could finish. “Viscount, where do you get these… underhanded ideas? If we do this, where is the noble spirit?”

“Sir, these tactics may be underhanded, but they work,” Konsko argued. “The Cecils have no regard for virtue or rules. Their lord leads by breaking noble decorum. We have no reason to uphold noble spirit with them…”

Sir Mariland stared at Konsko in surprise, as if meeting him for the first time. He hadn’t expected such cunning schemes from a noble’s mouth. Yet he also recognized their effectiveness. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Do you realize the Whitewater River’s downstream isn’t just occupied by Cecil troops? Many depend on it for survival.”

“What do the lives of commoners matter to us? While we suffer on the plains, those peasants have likely forgotten their lords and are busy welcoming their new Cecil masters!” Konsko’s voice grew passionate, as if releasing days of pent-up frustration. “Sir, I know your concern—the river flows south through your lands in the hills. But don’t forget, beyond that lie my estates and castles! What we must do now is make a glorious sacrifice. The peasants are like wheat—this harvest is cut down, but next year it will grow again. But if we die, who will maintain order in the south?”

Konsko gestured emphatically, his words taking on a stirring tone. What shocked Sir Mariland most was that the southern nobles present began nodding in agreement, seemingly inspired by the phrase “glorious sacrifice.” What was originally a plan utterly opposed to noble spirit suddenly sounded like a noble cause.

At that moment, Lady Ropeni’s cold voice cut through the room: “Gentlemen, I think you’re oversimplifying things.”

Ropeni Grant held considerable influence among the southern nobles. As she spoke, the roused nobles quieted down, and even Sir Mariland watched with a spectator’s expression, waiting for her to continue.

“Have you forgotten what the Cecils built their power on?”

Ropeni’s sharp words made many in the room thoughtful.

“Alchemy potions—they have so many alchemical potions it’s like they drink water. Are healing elixirs really that precious?” She scanned the room. “Even if you use druidic magic to poison the entire Whitewater River, the Cecils probably wouldn’t care. You’d just be wasting your efforts.”

The southern nobles exchanged uneasy glances. Viscount Konsko was speechless. Sir Mariland spoke up at the right moment: “Indeed, Viscount Konsko, that’s not a good idea.”

He added, “But we do need to respond—while the Cecils haven’t yet secured their foothold…”

(End of chapter)